Undertow (19 page)

When it was all over, he told me why he and Bryant really asked me to dinner. They wanted me to come home and work with them. They wanted to make me the Director of Marketing and Design for Kyser-Brennan Equities—creating the image for their entire corporate brand.

I have to confess, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

So I didn’t. I said yes. And here I am.

Wrapping up my work in Atlanta took longer than I expected. I was involved in several campaigns, and the partners tried to get me to stay. I almost changed my mind more than once. Why would I go back to south Alabama to work in development? It was a fickle field and very risky, and Bill didn’t even have his company off the ground yet. For that matter, he wasn’t even finished with college.

But I knew he would make it happen. And I don’t know. I guess in Atlanta I saw something in him I hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t a kid anymore. None of us were. He was commanding when he needed to be, and it made me feel like I could trust him.

He’d done right by Meg, and I hadn’t given their marriage a chance. But he’d proven me wrong. They were coming up on two years together now, and as far as I could tell, they were very happy. So I packed my bags and left the big city.

My last day walking to the Marta station cinched it. It was cold and windy, and I looked at the gray clouds thinking it might snow. Then I looked at the faces passing me on the street. They were all frowning and lined. To a person they had their heads down and were pushing forward, forward, forward. I thought of worker bees, and then I remembered that old expression about the Rat Race. I didn’t want to be a rat. I wanted to be an artist.

I wanted to have color and fill this black, white, and gray world with beauty. I arrived at my office in Roswell a half hour later and cleaned out my desk.

The night I got home, Miss Stella was already in bed asleep, and I didn’t want to wake her. I’d told her I was coming back, but I’d arrived a day early. I couldn’t wait to be back home. The next morning I opened my eyes and breathed in the smells of coffee and hot, buttery toast. I was lying in bed looking at the sun streaming across the ceiling when she came into my room and sat beside me.

“My little bird is back in the nest,” she said.

“And what a wonderful nest it is.” I slid my head onto her lap and wrapped my arms around her broad middle. “Oh, Miss Stella. It’s so good to be back here with you.”

She combed her fingers through my hair. “I thought you’d stay in Atlanta. What in the world could Bill Kyser have said to make you come back?”

“Mmm. It wasn’t anything he said so much as just a combination of how I was feeling and then him showing up and offering me a chance to come back. I wasn’t happy there.”

“Didn’t you meet any young men in Atlanta?”

I shrugged in her arms. “A few. Suzanne and I would go out, and occasionally we’d meet some guys. But I never really connected with any of them. They were all so preoccupied with work and name-dropping and the importance of their clients. Always looking over my shoulder to see who was more important in the room.” I sighed. “It was exhausting, always a competition.”

“Don’t tell me you were expecting to meet a nice young man in a bar?”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t planning to date anyone from work.”

“What about church?” she rubbed my arm. “Didn’t you attend church anywhere? You can always find a nice man at church.”

I chuckled into her waist. “I love you. And I’m afraid I didn’t have much time for church.” I gave her another squeeze and then sat up, leaning back against my pillows.

“That’s not what I like to hear. And I don’t like you being alone still. You’re too pretty a girl.”

“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I just can’t seem to find anyone I like.”

“More like you never give anyone a chance.” We both looked down, and she continued quietly. “Not every man is like your father, Alexandra. They don’t all abandon their families.”

I shook my head. “It’s not that. I just never seem to find anyone I’m comfortable with, and the one time I tried… I was burned. Badly.”

“You can’t let one bad apple spoil the bunch,” she said, patting my hand. “You’ll start coming to church with me, and we’ll find someone for you to settle down with.”

“Miss Stella,” I grinned. “You’re hopelessly old-fashioned. Don’t you know young ladies these days don’t need a man to settle down?”

“I’m sure I’m
very
old-fashioned, but I’ll feel better knowing you have someone taking care of you.”

“More like me taking care of him.”

“The one who gives the care gets as much joy as the one receiving it,” she said in her knowing way. “Sometimes more.”

I bent my knees and wrapped my arms around them. “I think I’ll just be like you. Take in some little orphan and care for it.”

Her lips pursed. “That’s not the same as having an adult relationship with a man. You need that, dear. It’s the way God made us.”

My eyebrows pulled together. “But you’ve been alone since your husband died.”

“It hasn’t been easy, and I was much older than you are now when I lost him.” She patted my arm. “It would give me peace to know you were settled before I die.”

I dove forward, hugging her waist again. “Well, if that’s the reason, then forget the whole thing. I’d much rather have you.”

She chuckled. “I’m not going to live forever, you know.”

“I know,” I sighed. “But can I at least get my feet under me first? I need to figure out what I’m doing here before I get distracted by one of your nice young men.”

I climbed out of bed and prepared to shower. She stood and gave my shoulders a squeeze. “Don’t take too long. I’d like to give you away at your wedding.”

“That only makes me want to go slower.”

She shook her head and left the room as I went to freshen up. I couldn’t wait to hit the beach. It had been too long since I’d been on my own stretch of sand.

Feb. 1, 19--

I think Bill expected me to check in when I arrived, but between classes and his family, I decided he could give me a few days to decompress and get back in the South County frame of mind.

I ended up taking a week.

Time moved astonishingly slower here, and I was finally starting to feel like my brain had stopped ticking at ninety miles per second. That morning I walked down to sit by the water and listen to the sounds of home.

My eyes were closed when I heard someone approaching, but I wasn’t disturbed by the squeak of footsteps in the sand. When I opened my eyes and saw Bill dropping down beside me, I jumped. I was expecting Miss Stella coming to get me for breakfast.

“Hi, boss,” I smiled.

“What’re you doing down here?” he said, sitting so he could face me.

“Finding my inspiration.” I closed my eyes again and breathed deeply.

“Does your inspiration say anything about checking in at work?”

“Hmm?” I slanted an eye open. “Nope. It’s saying I should take a few more days to acclimate to a new environment.”

“The new environment where you grew up?” I felt him lean back, but the warmth of his bent knees was still close to my arm.

“It’s very different here from Atlanta,” I said. “I need to find my rhythm again, my creativity.”

“And how are you planning to do that?”

I opened both eyes then. “It’s easier to show you if you’re really interested.”

“How bout you just tell me,” he said.

“No, sit up.” I pulled his arm until he was sitting straight beside me. “Now, here, cross your legs and face out at the water. Close your eyes and breathe. In and out. Listen to your breathing. The waves crashing, the gulls. See what other sounds you can hear.”

“You talking…”

My shoulders fell. “Do you want to do this or not?”

“It seems like I said I didn’t.” I exhaled, and he relented. “Okay, what next.”

“Close your eyes. Now, as you breathe, see what smells you notice.”

His nose wrinkled. “Are you about to skunk me?”

“How old do you think I am?”

He peeked through one eye. “Same age as me.”

“Well, I’m more mature. Just try it. I usually smell the salt water, sometimes fish, sometimes wood.” I sat back on the sand beside him and put my chin on my knees looking out at the ocean. “It’s about really concentrating on your surroundings and relaxing. Listening to your breathing and feeling your heart rate slow. They say the more relaxed you are, the more creative you are, and smell is the strongest mnemonic device.”

“Mnemonic device,” he repeated.

“Memory trigger.”

“I thought mnemonics were like acronyms.”

“Would you be quiet and cooperate?”

He sat there for a few seconds following my instructions. I turned my head to look at his face. I’d never really looked at Bill for any length of time. He was handsome, sure, but looking at him now, I decided he might make a good subject for a portrait. He wasn’t perfect like Meg, and he had some interesting features…

His eyes opened suddenly, and I jumped. Then I laughed, pressing my forehead to my knees and blushing.

“What?” He smiled. “What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry.” I exhaled. “You caught me thinking I should paint your portrait sometime. That’s all.”

“Hey, that would be cool. I could put it in the lobby or something. Maybe you could do one of me and Bryant together in our suits. Conquerors of the coast.”

I made a face. “See if you can grab the reins on that ego. I wouldn’t do it until you’re much older. Maybe as a retirement gift.”

His brow creased. “Retirement?”

“Well, maybe I won’t wait that long.”

“So how does it work?” he said. “Would you take a picture or would I have to sit for hours without moving?”

“I could probably do it from memory,” I said, holding my hands up to frame his face. “I’m more of an impressionist than a realist. I mean, my paintings look realistic, but the colors and shapes are exaggerated. So I could just do it on my own sometime. If you wanted it in my style, I mean. I could use another style. I could take a picture and try for strict realism if you prefer that.”

He shook his head. “No, I like your style. But now I’m wondering what all you can do. For work I mean.”

“Well, I took an art history course at SCAD, and they taught us about different Renaissance techniques and classical styles. It was really cool and interesting. You know DaVinci practically invented anatomical drawings. He even dabbled in phrenology.”

Bill was lifting sand in his fist and letting it stream out as he listened. “What’s phrenology?”

I studied my palm. “Oh, it’s completely silly, using the shape of your skull to determine what type of person you are and your natural inclinations.”

His blue eyes flickered with interest. “Can you do it?”

I shrugged. “I read about it, and of course I had to experiment on myself. But it’s total garbage.”

Then he scooted closer. “Try it on me.”

I laughed. “You’re curious what the bumps on your head say about your character?”

“Sure. It sounds like fun.” He leaned his head toward me. “Like getting your palm read or something.”

“That’s exactly what it’s like. I think the term
quackery
was invented just for phrenology.”

“So it’s not real. Tell me anyway.”

“Well, the actual practitioners used tape measures and calipers. I don’t have any of that. But let me see.” I leaned over him, carefully touching his light brown hair, placing my hands behind his ears and around the sides of his head. My hair slid down my shoulder into his face, and he held it back.

“So you have a strong forehead, which means you’re benevolent, and the top of your head is rounded, meaning you’re decisive and persistent.”

He nodded, and I was very aware of his head close to my sternum. “That sounds right,” he said.

I moved back. “I guess that’s why it had followers. It’s like astrology. Sometimes it can match how your personality really is.”

“What else?”

Carefully, I put my palms on the sides of his face, looking straight into his eyes. For some reason, it caused a sensation in me… that I immediately dismissed as hunger. Low blood sugar.

“The width of your temples is supposed to determine your love of beauty,” I continued, refocusing my thoughts. “And that combined with the prominence of your brow shows your level of creativity. Like the shape of my face indicates I should be a creative artist.”

“Ahh,” he nodded then smiled. “Now I see how it’s quackery.”

I looked down. “It really is. It says people with oval heads are not creative, and there are tons of oval-shaped faces in the creative field. It’s completely ridiculous.”

“It’s fun, though. Like handwriting analysis.”

“I guess.” I sat back, and he released my hair.

“You smell nice. What’s that?”

“Soap. You should try it sometime.”

He started to get up. “And on that insult, I’m leaving.”